


Open Your Wings

by Crowgirl



Series: Scars Remind Us [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cuddling, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Season 3 Spoilers, mention of Hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-16
Updated: 2011-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-24 16:57:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ongoing discussion, and ramifications thereof, between Dean and Castiel about the after-effects of Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open Your Wings

XI.

Dean doesn’t expect an answer.

He feels another breeze move over his naked skin, ruffling up gooseflesh and more bad memories: ice over his nipples and between his legs, freezing to the bone, then ripping loose--

‘Dean. I am here.’

‘What!’ He springs upright, unable to stop the ingrained reaction, the sudden pulse of fear that sets his heart hammering. ‘Cas!’

The angel kneels by the side of the bed, his hands just on the edge of the mattress. ‘I said I would come if you needed me.’

Dean has no idea what to say, no words with which to say it if he knew. All he can think to do is grab Castiel’s shoulders, haul him up on the bed, and use him like a blanket. He doesn’t know if this is appropriate or right or allowed or what trauma victims, which he supposes he is, are meant to do, but his body overrules his brain and does it anyway.

Castiel comes with the tug easily, arranging himself on the bed as if he had known this was how he would be spending his early morning hours. He curls himself around Dean, one arm sliding around the younger man’s shoulders protectively.

Dean clings onto the trench coat, fingers knotting into the rough material. ‘I...uh...hey, I’m sorry, Cas.’ He tries to keep his voice normal, as if this is how they spend time regularly: Dean burrowing into Castiel’s shoulder like a little kid hiding from a nightmare.

‘For what?’

‘This.’ Dean manages a shaky sound that’s supposed to be a laugh. ‘Bet you had big plans for the evening. Not coddlin’ me.’

Castiel shifts position slightly and Dean, somewhat to his surprise, finds himself gently drawn against Castiel’s chest, pillowed on the angel’s shoulder. It isn’t uncomfortable, for all the trench coat and suit beneath it are a little scratchy. Castiel is warm and solid and smells sweet and a little earthy, like he’s been somewhere spicy.

Dean doesn’t know what to make of any of this and it isn’t like language is his strong point at the minute, anyway. It takes him a full fifteen minutes to realise he’s still stark naked.

Naked and – well, at least he’s not _yelling_ at Cas. But...he’s not sure how he feels about being naked and _cuddling_ Cas, either. Which is definitely what’s happening here; Castiel’s hands are linked over his shoulder; one of his legs is finding its way over Cas’ hips...this is cuddling.

As soon as he realises this, the panic starts to rise in the back of his mind and he feels his muscles start to tense. He’s never cuddled a guy before; it’s never really been called for. And this is the wrong time to learn, he’s pretty damned sure of _that_ \--

Castiel’s hand smooths down his arm. ‘There is nothing wrong, Dean, nothing here to hurt you. I will remain only until you do not want me here any more.’

What the hell does that mean? ‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘When you want me to leave, tell me. If I...if I am making you feel worse.’ Castiel is silent for a moment, then adds, ‘I would understand if that were the case.’ He is silent for a minute, then adds, almost diffidently: ‘If it makes you feel better, I found one of Alastair’s pets tonight.’

Dean feels himself tense further, his toes curling in on themselves. ‘And?’

‘She is bound. Permanently. Between the worlds, under salt, in iron, between ash and water. In pain forever.’ Castiel’s voice isn’t particularly cold or hard, but it is inexorable and Dean doesn’t doubt a word he says.

‘Cas...’ He can no more stop the next question out of his mouth than he can fly: ‘Which one?’

Castiel hesitates for a minute, then answers: ‘Oriana.’

Dean closes his eyes, resists the urge to burrow into Castiel’s shoulder like a kid looking for relief from a nightmare. ‘I remember her.’ Inasmuch as demons had a gender outside of whoever they possess, Oriana was a tough bitch. The skin between Dean’s shoulderblades twitches at her memory and he remembers a silver stake pushing slowly into his flesh, past his spine...

‘Dean.’ Castiel’s hand smoothes over his arm again and he comes back to reality with a jerk. ‘She can no longer hurt you.’

‘Yeah...you hurt her instead – you allowed to do that sort of thing, Cas?’

‘Yes.’

Dean stays silent. The steel in Cas’ voice was enough to shut anyone up. He’s starting to feel cold, though; the heat from the shower is seeping away and the post-storm breezes are chill.

Castiel seems to realise this before Dean can move or say anything; he shifts quickly, efficiently to one side, swinging the covers on the bed back and bundling Dean between the sheets. He flips the bedclothes back into place and lies back down on top of them, his arm sliding back around Dean’s shoulders.

Dean lies straight under the sheets for a few minutes, looking up at the ceiling. He can’t decide which is stranger: the pain of half-remembered Hell, or the awkwardness of the body in the bed beside him. Fuck it – comfort wins out over awkward any day and with a sigh, he curls back against Castiel, letting his arm rest on the other man’s midsection, feeling the slow rhythm of his breathing.

‘Dean?’ Castiel sounds strangely tentative.

‘Yeah?’

‘Is this...’

‘It’s fine, man. If it wasn’t, you’d be bouncing your way down the stairs.’ He can’t remember now why he was so desperate for Cas to leave earlier. Much to his own surprise, he’s starting to feel sleepy.

Castiel nods; Dean hears the rustle against the pillows. ‘Good.’

Dean snorts and, to prove the point, presses closer, tucking his head under Castiel’s chin, feeling the scrape of that perpetual stubble against his hair. He shifts his arm, meaning to tuck his hand into the warmth between Castiel’s elbow and his body, but his palm drifts too high and he abruptly feels the sharp peak of Castiel’s nipple under his hand and hears Castiel’s startled inhalation.

He freezes, unable to think.

 _...a young man, younger than him, in the backseat of the Impala, head thrown back against the upholstery, urging Dean between his legs with both hands..._

 _...the woman, her breast half-sliced away, grabbing for him with taloned fingers, digging her claws into his shoulders, tearing away his flesh and raising it to her mouth with a fanged smile..._

 _...an older man smiling at him in a smoky bar-room, the smile surprisingly sweet which makes Dean pick up his beer and cross over to him..._

 _...a piercing pain in his back: metal sliding into his muscles, transfixing him, holding him – and if he looks down, if he can move that much, he knows he will see sharp points through his breastbone..._

‘Dean!’ Castiel’s voice is alarmed, loud in his ear and Dean jerks back against the pillows, his hand falling at his side.

‘What! Dude!’

Castiel is leaning over him, his eyes wide, his face sober – even a little frightened. ‘Dean, what happened?’

‘What...I...I....’ Dean looks down at his palm, stupidly expecting to see some kind of imprint there. ‘I...don’t know...I...your...’ He gestures vaguely at Castiel’s chest, aware now that he can taste metal in the back of his throat again. ‘I...’

Castiel watches him for a minute and Dean sees his expression change. For a minute, he thinks Cas looks sad and very tired, then Castiel’s fingers are on his temples and he knows what comes next.

‘No, Cas, c’mon--’

‘Sleep.’

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Evil Angel," Breaking Benjamin, _Phobia_. I really didn't mean to take every single title from this song...


End file.
